someday I'd like to sit
in my armchair
by the window
bathed with sunlight
book open at a portal
to drift off into storyland
like Alice
down the rabbit hole

In these notes
Are countless tales
Of memories, tried & true

But not a word
From endless books
Compares to me & you.

The turn of phrase,
Or so it goes,
Says all begins anew

I’ll be right here
’Til your last page
And in the next one, too.

If there were a story asked,
and the asker were as weary as me,

I might ask the asker what good
could a half told story be.

The asker answers, well then,
begin at the end,
then we all rest easy, knowing
it all works out.

i think i am in love with your soft rain
the sound of the pitter patter against my window sill
your sweet sound putting me gently to sleep
caress the flesh and bone feeling so calm
calloused fingers through my hair
play me a song
something that reminds you of me
something gentle
the thought of you so riveting
messy
and clean
and full
love that cannot be tarnished
love so alive and dramatic
love that can only exist in the mind of a
hopeless romantic.

Should have gone to the library
It's shoulders dosen't judge
nor dose it bend for your heavy heart
For they know the feeling of being forgotten and newly discovered

How easy it is to just fade into the background
How each breath gets thinner and thinner,
until it completely fades away

A mere puff of air leaves my lips
and the dust falls dancingly of the books shoulder
like an invitation to open and turn the page
return to a world you left behind
and rejoice in finding the lost memories of happiness and bright as childlike laughter.

I remember dad sitting and reading
each evening after dinner
once he and me had washed up in the galley kitchen.

After, I remember him stripping down to the waist
and body washing at the sink, then completing
his evening shave.

I remember his big old badger shaving brush
and a shaving mug refilled with Old Spice.

I remember the odour, filling the kitchen
and sticking to him.

But mostly I remember him in his white vest
in the brown armchair under the warm standard lamp,
feet up by the fire, reading his books.

Wilbur Smith.
Alastair MacLean.
Jack Higgins.

The Sound of Thunder.
Ice Station Zebra.
Wrath Of The Lion.

Always a hardback. Always a loaner
from the regular family trips
to the woods and the library.

Always sitting in his heady mix
of Old Spice, Brylcreem and St Bruno,
reading and relishing the opportunity
to pass the book on to me
telling me of his envy of my first read
of the adventure he’d just finished.

Sadness is finishing a great novel
on the train to work
and carrying it home
empty of suspense,
with a faint hope
for the yet unpublished sequel.

I dream as a flower,
opening in waves
as the pages of a book,
I bloom between dreams
and reality while in
sips of tea, the people
who walk past, they too,
are beings of water in the oceans of
the mind and are visitors of the earth,
stars are in the words they speak
within the the ease of the midnight hour,
the propeller seeds lift for the moon in
the eyes they held for one another,
the depth in the quiet longing
and the secrets of love lead
I, the writer, in my wish to sing, “all the
unsung is, by the sight
of the heart, sung forever”,
so then, all the things
they behold become
as they are, wondrous.

Monday mornings are always easy.

Monday mornings bring a breeze South
Of The East,
North
Of The West.

Its caressing the exposed skin
of my flaky neck
like the lead cannon from Atlantis,

Flying for the grasp
Of the cactus from San Pedro
That provides mescaline to the tribes
Nearby, that pray to its being as The Messenger
From

The West. Beyond the horizon,

Like the jack rabbit, eroding, with a tube
Sock in the vestibule over The Dungeon That Sings,

Sideway neighbors to the uvula. If seen that way.
                        
                  Beyond, the continual rings of                             Agorapho-

                                                      ­                                              bia,
Challenging anxious mind,
With ideas
Of how it be the, not the seal in yestereen's heels.

Monday mornings
Are always easy.

It's funny how people say for others
"Don't judge a book by its cover".
Honey, I've read the whole series -
I still want my refund,
Believe me, that story never got interesting nor pretty.
It was comfort when you're feeling down,
It was home when no one else was around,
It was fun, when you needed a good time to laugh.

Why I want a refund you'd ask?
The magic forest isn't just pretty fairies and unicorns, right?
So was this book.
Cover ain't pretty, but we don't judge it - we give it a try.
Yet, under all the magic,
there's something scary, that could make you lose your pride.
Ugly witches, goblins, trolls,
but isn't the forest also their home?
Story can't always be bright,
But when the dark consumes all the light,
the book is no longer your anchor.
The pages contain ungly spells that make you feel like you're reading something else.
One of the trolls probably tried to trick me - he succeeded.
Can't believe once I've said this book was everything I needed.

Could be the troll,
could be the narrator,
could be just me,
but the comforting fairy tale,
is no longer what it used to be.

And I believe you feel the same way as me,
as this was our first and last journey,
cause the story got way too ugly so we both decided that it's just not worth it.

So, you see, I didn't judge it before,
nor will I do it now.
Yet, I'd like to bring it all back,
wishing I've never read that series nor reach its finale.